Step By Step
by illuminata79
Summary: Mick encounters some ups and downs as he takes some important steps on his way into a normal life.
1. Chapter 1

Not much comment on this one - just a glimpse of Mick as he tries to conquer the challenges of returning into a life as normal as possible and keeps wondering about his professional future, just like the questions posed in the song I've chosen as a soundtrack.

**Johnny Cash - Can't Help But Wonder Where I'm Bound**

_It's a long and a dusty road, a hot and heavy load _  
_And the folks that I meet ain't always kind _  
_Some are bad, some are good, some have done the best they could _  
_And some have tried to ease my troubled mind _

_And I can't help but wonder where I'm bound, where I'm bound _  
_Can't help but wonder where I'm bound _

_I've been wandering through this land just doing the best I can _  
_Trying to find what I was meant to do _  
_And the people that I see look as worried as can be _  
_And it looks like they are wondering too _

_And I can't help but wonder where I'm bound, where I'm bound_  
_Can't help but wonder where I'm bound_

* * *

_July - September 1946_

The ball smacked into the wall and bounced back with a hollow sound. My third miss in a row.

A rude curse was on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back so Helen wouldn't chew me out again for my sailor's mouth.

When she lobbed the ball at me once more, I was prepared and flicked it right back at her at a tricky angle. She made an adventurous lunge for it to keep it from smacking into the door, which was already decorated with some dark smudges from similar accidents, and threw me a killer glare.

"Do you think that's funny or what? I'm not the one who's supposed to get some exercise here!"

I only grinned.

I actually did think it was very funny to have duped my formidable therapist for once, a little bit of satisfaction for all the hours of grueling training I had put in under her merciless eyes. Her methods rivaled those of the worst drill sergeants I'd seen in the army, but there was no denying that she had whipped me into quite good shape on the new leg.

It had been – and still was – a very demanding undertaking to walk on two legs again. This basic staple of a normal life, which comes so naturally to you that you never even think about it, was pretty strenuous now that one of those legs was mostly made up of plastic and steel, even if I was a lot fitter now than I had been back at the hospital. Most of all, it was hard on my right hip. When you're short of a knee joint, it's your hip that has to do all the work, which is exactly as taxing as it sounds.

After my first sessions with Helen, the bit of leg that was still flesh and bone had ached so fiercely that I had been rather hard pressed to believe I would ever be as nimble on my disparate feet as Dr. Baker had promised I would. Although I remembered that it had taken a long time to adapt when I had first tried using an artificial leg, and I guessed the lengthy break after the additional surgery hadn't helped matters either, I'd had some serious doubts that I would really make it work.

Two months into the training, wearing the leg for a longer period of time wasn't a big issue any more, and I had overcome the balance problems I'd had in the beginning. Only when I started training with the prosthetic leg had I realized just how well I had got used to my body's changed center of balance meanwhile. The first time I tried standing on two legs without support, I'd almost fallen over sideways because I had automatically leaned to the left to compensate the missing limb.

I could do a lot better than that now, at least in the protective environment of the rehab facility. I had not yet dared to go without the crutches outside the training room, but at the end of today's session, Helen told me to stop being a coward, to finally take the plunge and go home with only a cane to lean on.

Judging from the steely look in her eyes, she wasn't going to take another no for an answer, and, knowing I wouldn't have to take the bus home because Evelyn would be coming round in the car she'd recently bought with the proceeds of her book, I nodded obediently.

When I left the room, she was already there, sitting in one of the shabby chairs lined up in the corridor, leafing through her notebook, only looking up as the door snapped shut behind me.

Her eyes grew large and lit up with surprise when she became aware of my new accomplishment.

With a somewhat sheepish grin, I made my way over to her, a small surge of pride rising in me.

It was slow, it was pretty awkward, and it certainly was a far cry from smooth or even elegant, but if I went out into the street now, nobody would immediately recognize me for the cripple I was. A casual onlooker would see the cane and the limp and probably assume the cane was just a temporary aid, the limp the result of some silly little accident or, in these post-war times, that both was due to a shot-up knee at the worst. I could live with that, a lot better than with those curious stares and pitifully kind smiles.

Evelyn's eyes were glittering with happy tears when I stopped in front of her, and I asked jokingly, "Does it look so dreadful that it makes you cry?"

She shook her head and smiled, a big genuine smile. "You're impossible, Mick." She laughed and sniffled and wiped at her eyes. "It doesn't look dreadful at all. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

I brushed her words aside with some ironic remark, but it gave me a warm shiver of joy to walk down the corridor with her, one hand free to hold hers, just the way perfectly normal lovers do.

The prospect of little bits of normalcy returning to my life was what kept me going when Helen challenged me again and again to take things a trifle further than the last time around, when I wanted to strangle her for torturing me like that, when the muscles in my hip screamed with soreness or I lost my balance for the umpteenth time, toppling to the floor or banging into the parallel bars we used in my gait training.

If I carried on doggedly in spite of all the little crises and setbacks, it was as much for Evelyn's sake as for my own.

Often enough, I couldn't see much progress and got close to contenting myself with the less than satisfying status quo, but then, I couldn't just give up when she was so incredibly supportive, celebrating every little hurdle I mastered, encouraging me when my doubts got the upper hand.

Right after my first visit with Dr. Baker, she had been to some antiques shop downtown and found an ornate mahogany walking cane with, of all things, a stylized seahorse carved into the handle. "I don't care how long it takes you to get there, but one day I want to see you use this instead of those unwieldy things", she had said, nodding at the crutches.

The seahorse indeed became my faithful companion as my skills with the new leg improved and I grew more confident using it even outside my familiar home ground, going for little walks or taking a bus or train to the beach or into town while Evelyn was at work.

Once, I even sat in on one of her lectures at the university, as she had invited me to do whenever I felt like it.

I didn't understand all the scientific details and theories she was talking about, but I was highly impressed by her confidence in front of her large audience and the calm authority she exuded. The students seemed to appreciate and like her, flocking to the desk after the lesson to ask questions or discuss certain aspects of the subject matter. I knew she had noticed me, she had given me a tiny wink as she entered the room, but I didn't want to attract anyone's attention further than that and left without speaking to her.

When I wasn't out and about or at the rehab center, I tried to fill my days with additional exercise – I had begun working out with weights and even devised a way of doing push-ups one-legged without keeling over – and started to brush up my knowledge of various things that might come in handy for my job search.

I had begun to put out feelers in all kinds of directions and applied for a few jobs that didn't sound terribly exciting but at least would not mean gathering dust in some dull office, and I had even had a couple of interviews so far

I didn't actually mind too much when the personnel manager of the print shop phoned to say they had found someone with more experience to fill in the vacant position. Typesetting would not have been the career of my dreams anyway.

Later the same day, the owner of the boating-supply store near Cronulla Beach had been very sorry to inform me that they had decided on another candidate.

This in turn really dragged me down. I had hoped I'd get to work at the small shop close to the sea, handling material I was familiar with, serving customers who loved the same things that I loved.

Getting rejected twice in one day made me feel useless and unwanted again and had me wondering if I'd ever manage to find acceptable work.

I was determined to make it somehow, but what good did all the determination in the world do if nobody gave me a chance to prove to myself and to the world that I was still a valuable person despite my disability?

To dispel the negativity, I went into what had become my room for a particularly exhausting workout.

An hour later, I was out of breath, sweating profusely, but my mood hadn't improved much.

After a quick shower (or what passed for quick these days), I went out to take a walk, marching on and on with my fake leg until it seemed about to burst into flames any second and the pain drowned out my morose musings.

I treated myself to a taxi home, where I arrived long after Evelyn had come back from work. By the time I showed up, she was seriously worried.

"I needed to get out", was all I said by way of explanation, and I must have given her quite a forbidding look, for she did not ask the questions she clearly had on the tip of her tongue.

Over supper, we spoke only of trivial things. I mainly let her talk about her workday, interjecting the occasional yes or no, and finally got up, saying I would hit the sack early tonight.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I changed into my pajamas and then leaned back against the headboard with a groan. I was feeling utterly spent, and the leg hurt something awful.

I closed my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose, disappointed and angry with myself and my failure to get a job and the limitations to my activity.

My smarting leg and strained hip were clearly telling me I had overdone the exercise quite a bit. Coming home, I had barely made it up the stairs to the second-floor apartment.

A long walk and two flights of stairs had taken me to the limits of my physical abilities. How pathetic.

Not much more than a year ago, I had marched through the sweltering jungle for days on end, carrying my pack and rifle and tons of other equipment, with hardly any food or sleep to keep me going.

The door opened, and Evelyn came into the bedroom in a cream-coloured cotton shift, her copper curls tumbling unrestrained down her back.

"Now what's the matter, Mick?" she asked as she climbed into bed to sit next to me.

"Got turned down", I said. "Remember the print shop?"

"Oh well. Wasn't that the one you didn't really want at all?"

I gave her a tired smile. "Too true, but I guess it'd have been better than nothing at all. Especially when I won't get the job I wanted either. The boating shop called, too."

"Damn. That's really too bad."

I shrugged and pretended to take it in my stride. "Guess it would have been too good to be true."

I slid down on the bed, stretching out to relax my legs, massaging my cramped hip.

"What's with your hip?" she asked immediately.

You really couldn't keep anything from that woman.

"Hurts", I said laconically.

"Why? Something wrong with the new leg? Isn't it fitting properly? You know Helen said that might happen when the …"

"I guess I shouldn't have tried to exercise _and_ walk five miles in one afternoon", I cut in. "I should have known that was a bad idea for a cripple like me."

"Mick - just _how_ far did you walk?" she asked in a severe tone. "From here to Harbour Bridge?"

"Almost", I confessed. "No, don't say anything, please. I feel like crap anyway. I'm totally busted. You know, walking like that takes a lot more strength than you might think." I groaned as I kneaded a particularly tense spot in my hip. "I wonder if I shouldn't be doing a lot better by now. Maybe I am one of Dr. Stiles's seventy-five per cent after all."

She laid a hand on my shoulder and said, "Don't say that just yet, Mick. It's only been a short while since you began at all. Give yourself some time. What did you expect, strap on the new leg and go run a marathon?"

I winced, both at the absurd idea of me running a marathon and at the pain flaring up forcefully. Involuntarily, my hand went to my thigh.

Evelyn was sure to detect the movement at once.

"Does it hurt so badly?" she asked. "More than you think it should? Maybe there's really something up with the leg and you should have someone look at it?"

I shrugged. "Don't think so. I guess fake legs are a bit like new shoes. Takes a while until they don't pinch and chafe any more, and you shouldn't wear them too long at a time. Only trouble is, with shoes, you can always put on another pair or go barefoot. The choice I have is between the pain and the crutches. Or not to walk more than a mile without a break. Fantastic." I bared my teeth in a sarcastic imitation of a smile.

"Oh, Mick, don't be so defeatist", she sighed. "You're not giving up on it, are you?"

I shrugged again.

"Please don't. It's not like you. You still want to prove that idiot Stiles wrong, don't you?"

There she was again, appealing to my pride in order to awaken the spirit of rebellious defiance she knew I had.

This was exactly how she had got me to go see another specialist at all.

"Sure I do", I said, adding somewhat grumpily, "If only it didn't _hurt_ so damn much."


	2. Chapter 2

_May 1946_

She lay in the crook of my arm, her head on my shoulder, a small hand playing with the hair on my chest, both of us satisfied and drowsy with the afterglow of some extended lovemaking, the covers wrapped snugly around us against the chill of the frigid autumn day.

I kissed her copper curls lazily and, following the mounds our bodies formed under the pale yellow covers with my eyes, mused wistfully, "Looking at us now, it'd be so easy to pretend everything's fine."

"Well, it is, isn't it?" She tilted her head way back to frown at me upside down. "We're together, cosy and warm, and I've just had wonderful sex with a wonderful man. So yes, I do think everything's fine. No need to pretend."

"Aw, you know what I'm getting at, don't you? You know what's under the covers."

"The man I love?"

"The _damaged_ man you love, you mean."

"Oh, Mick." She pushed herself up on her elbows and said, "Don't get started like that again, please. You know perfectly well I don't have any issues with your leg, and you shouldn't either. Why'd you want to pretend? It's no use anyway. It won't change a thing. Don't get me wrong, I understand how much you must wish things were different, but they are the way they are. We have no choice but accept reality and make the best of it."

"You don't understand _nothing_", I said acidly, coming up on my elbows myself, grabbing a fistful of bed linen to keep myself from smashing something against the wall.

_Try not being able to drive or swim or run and see how you would like having to get used to all those constraints, _I wanted to shout at her. _Try having to ask someone for help when you simply want to take a cup of tea into the next room but can't because you've got your hands full with the crutches. Try crashing to the floor and lying there, waiting for someone to pick you up when all you'd wanted was go take a leak at night and forgot in your half-sleep that you had this new little problem of a missing leg. Try lying on your back for weeks on end, stuck in a giant plaster cast, totally helpless, or getting up finally to find you're so weak that even going to the goddamn toilet is a challenge. Then you might know what I'm talking about._

I didn't say any of this, but I glared at her blackly, almost hating her for a terrible moment, with her intact body and her sensible attitude towards my troubles. She certainly was not wrong in what she'd said, but this factual view of things seemed so cold to me.

I didn't want to have to explain why I felt the way I felt. I wanted her to understand without explanation.

"Mick …", she began.

"What if I can't _simply_ accept it all, like I was some kind of saint? What if I don't _want_ to? I want my life back, you know. All of it. I can't simply push a button and – snap! – accept that a large part of it has gone down the drain. I can't just sit around and be a good little invalid with a blanket over my knees – oh, wait, make that _knee, _let's face the fact that I only have one of them left. I can't just _accept_ that all I can possibly expect from life is collecting an amazing collection of rare stamps or write my memoirs or become a chess champion, no matter that I'd rather do some proper work and be a proper man."

"Oh, Mick, please don't make it so much worse than it really is", she said unhappily.

"No need to make it worse. It's bad enough as it is", I retorted, untangled myself from the covers and began to collect my clothes that were strewn all over the floor by the bed. My shirt was just out of reach, and it took three attempts until I managed to snatch it up with the tip of a crutch.

This was symptomatic of my perennial dilemma – if I asked for help, it was always embarrassing; if I did something myself, it was usually awkward. How I hated having to make a fool of myself, one way or the other, to get things done.

I felt Evelyn's eyes on my back, but I couldn't bring myself to turn around. I didn't want to talk it over right now, and I didn't want to hear any apologies.

She didn't speak to me until I had got dressed and left the bedroom.

I went through into the living-room, following a sudden craving for something strong.

I knew she kept a few bottles of liquor, probably leftovers from back when that prick Phillip was alive, in the little cabinet below the window.

Its door was stuck and I had to pry it loose with some effort. When it finally gave, I almost fell over with the jolt and hit my hipbone painfully on the marble windowsill.

At last I found a bottle of fine Scotch whisky, still about a third full, and got it onto the side table without further accidents. I didn't bother to fetch a glass, I just plonked myself down in the wing chair by the table and took a generous swig.

Evelyn didn't come looking for me the way she usually did after we'd had a clash. I could hear her noisily pottering around in her study.

By the time she did enter the living-room, the level of amber liquid had diminished considerably.

It had not helped much, though, so I had put the cork back in the bottle and was staring into space, utterly discontented with everything.

From where she stood when she came in, she couldn't have seen the bottle on the table behind me, and I didn't think I was visibly inebriated, but the first thing she said was, "Are you drunk, Mick?"

"What if I were? Why don't you just _accept_ it?" I scoffed.

"Dammit, Mick, I know you hate your life right now, and I guess what I said in bed was a very dumb thing to say, but getting sozzled doesn't solve anything." She walked over briskly and stowed the bottle back where it belonged. "I don't want this to become a habit."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, worry about yourself, will you? I'm surely not going to end up an alcoholic just because I feel like getting sloshed once in a while. Can't you simply leave me alone for once?"

"Fine, if that's what you want, I'm gonna leave you alone", she shouted hotly. I'm not going to listen to you any more, or encourage you or try to make you see your stupid life is still worthwhile. But don't come crying when you feel you do need someone to hold your hand after all!"

Part of me wanted to holler back at her, and I was already drawing a deep breath to do so, but I suddenly felt very tired and not at all ready to engage in another senseless shouting match. A headache was beginning to throb in my temples, and I said wearily, "Can we stop yelling at each other, please? I don't want us to quarrel again."

She looked flabbergasted and almost a little disappointed when she asked pointedly, "So what _is _it you want?"

"Except my old life back, you mean?" I said flatly. "I guess I only know what I don't want. I don't want to be pitied, and I don't want to be mothered. I just want to live my stupid life and maybe, just maybe, I'll even learn how to be a happy invalid."

She pursed her lips in distaste and remained silent, which was very untypical of her who usually needed to have the final word and hardly ever let a "cripple" or "invalid" fly.

She stood for a while, clutching the back of an armchair, picking at the upholstery agitatedly. I could see her jaw working as the cogs were turning busily in her mind.

Finally, she threw up her hands in a gesture of defeat and said, "I'm sorry, I just can't seem to find the right thing to say to you. When I said … what I said earlier, I didn't say it to hurt you. I just thought … oh well, never mind. I only wish there was actually something I could do to make you happier with your life."

"I also wish there was", I said darkly. "But you were right, all those wishes and what-ifs aren't any use now. I guess you'll simply have to live with things the way they are, and I will, too. My leg isn't going to grow back after all. Better accept it, huh?" My attempt at a sarcastic laugh failed miserably. It sounded more like a sob.

She said nothing, but she came over and perched on the arm of my chair, and when the silly, childish urge to cry made my lips quiver wretchedly, she still didn't speak.

She simply held me while I gave in to my misery and heartache over a life that would never be all I wanted it to be.

* * *

She was very quiet and pensive for the next couple of days, and when we were sitting at the kitchen table one afternoon over a cup of coffee, she casually asked me, "Say, Mick, what kind of kid were you?"

"Huh?" I was totally taken aback, puzzled as to where that question suddenly came from.

"What kind of kid were you?" she repeated.

"Why d'you want to know? What's that to do with anything?"

"Well, when your mother told you that you couldn't do something, did you just give in and let it be because she said so? I don't think so." She raised a knowing eyebrow. "I think you'd rather go and do it anyway, and with all the more relish."

"Can't deny it", I replied, thinking of the countless times I had come home wet or bloodied or with my pants torn and stained because I had waded right into a tidal pool or fallen off my bicycle or snagged my clothes in the bramble hedge at the back of the garden which I used to crawl through instead of walking all the way round to the little gate at the front. This memory of days long past made me smile ruefully.

"So why are you so sure that pessimist doctor fellow – what was his name again? Stiles? - got it right?" she asked. "What's keeping you from getting someone else's opinion? There's got to be some good specialist in Sydney. Why not go and hear what he says? If he confirms what Stiles told you, well, then we'll have to deal with it somehow. If he doesn't, all the better. And honestly, I can't believe someone as young and strong as you shouldn't stand a real chance of making it work if he set his mind on it."

I had no valid argument against this, only an undefined, irrational fear of another doctor sealing my fate with an uninvolved, matter-of-fact assessment – a feeling so vague that she wouldn't have accepted it as an excuse.

So I had gone to see Dr. Baker, who had been rather displeased to hear of the dispiriting advice his colleague had left me with and emphatically told me there was absolutely no reason why I shouldn't at least give it a try.

"Well, surely walking with an above-knee prosthesis requires significantly more energy than a below-knee one, which is why we only see a relatively low success rate, but you have all the prerequisites of someone who will make it work. Everything's healed very well, the sutures couldn't look any better, you're in good general health, and you seem to be quite fit physically. I'd like to see you again in a couple of months, and I can't think why you shouldn't be walking in here on two legs then."

* * *

Two months later, almost to the day, I had walked into Dr. Baker's office with nothing but my seahorse cane. He was highly satisfied with me and said with a conspiratorial smirk, "I've a good mind to give my competent colleague in Brisbane a call."

"Well, maybe I ought to thank him in fact. Who knows if I'd have made such good progress if you hadn't recommended Helen, of all people, for torturing me back into shape", I replied with a chuckle.

"She's something else, isn't she?" the doctor said with a grin.

"Oh yes, she is", I said wryly and grimaced, which made him laugh.

But it hadn't been Helen's pitiless regimen alone that had brought me this far.

There was another woman who was truly something else.

She was waiting for me outside the doctor's office, rejoicing when I said I'd passed the examination with flying colours.

That evening, she took me downtown for a fancy dinner to celebrate the occasion and wouldn't hear of me picking up the bill.

It was a beautiful night out, with a lavish three-course menu and a good bottle of wine and Evelyn radiant in a dark green silk dress, a single large pearl, perfectly round and unblemished, shimmering at her neck.

For once, I even felt at ease in the dark suit and the navy and burgundy paisley tie Evelyn had chosen for me.

But what I enjoyed most of all that night was moving about the restaurant without people staring at my nonexistent leg, however discreetly.

Against all odds, I was back on my feet. Still a bit insecure on the fake one, but back nevertheless.


	3. Chapter 3

_September – October 1946_

I went to another interview the next day, at a steelwork company, gritting my teeth against the soreness in my thigh and hip.

I knew should have gone easy on the walking for the moment, but I sure as hell wasn't going to show up for a job interview on crutches with the leg off.

This time, I almost got the job. In fact, they would have hired me on the spot.

This time, it was me who said no. I just couldn't imagine sitting in a dimly lit corner of a noisy, airless factory workshop, sharpening drill bits for years to come, earning a pittance. I'd have gone crazy there within a couple of months.

I played the invalid card and told them politely that, coming here from the other end of town, I had realized the long commute in crowded buses would be very hard on my leg, and besides, I wasn't sure if I'd be able to sit in the same place eight hours a day.

They didn't appear too bothered. I guess they simply gave the job to the next guy in the waiting line.

Evelyn was already home when I arrived. She had just made herself a cup of tea and was flicking through a stack of mail on the kitchen table.

I hung up my hat and coat and joined her. Seeing my face, all she said was, "No luck?"

"Shouldn't have gone at all. Crap job, crap pay, and the leg's driving me mad. Anyway, I said no."

"You did? Well, if it was a crap job, good on you", she replied, unperturbed, focusing on the mail she was still sifting through. "Wait until you find something that suits you better. Don't rush anything. We're not starving after all."

I felt a bit stung, although I knew she hadn't meant to be condescending.

Glad as I was that I didn't desperately _need_ to take on the first job that came along to put a roof over our heads and some food on the table, I didn't like the fact that I wasn't able to support the woman who was my wife in all but name. It didn't seem fair that she should bear the brunt of our expenses, even if she said she didn't mind and I should take my time.

The reason I was looking for a job was not that I needed some nice little pastime to indulge in. I wasn't looking for some token job just to keep me occupied. I wanted to find serious, fulfilling work and to make a proper contribution to our living.

Before I could vent my feelings, she thrust an air mail envelope at me. "For you. Who's Mrs. Jackson Fielding?"

"No idea." I turned the thin envelope over and over in my hands. The return address was in Atlanta, Georgia. I didn't think I knew anyone in Atlanta. The handwriting seemed vaguely familiar, though.

Could some of my army buddies have found out where I'd gone off to?

I wondered who it should be. Doc Maloney had been from Connecticut, Leary was a Pennsylvanian, Henderson had hailed from somewhere in the northwest, and the others who might have cared about me were all dead.

Of course, they might have gone to live somewhere else, but that wouldn't explain "Mrs. Jackson Fielding".

Curious, I slit the flap open with a small kitchen knife and unfolded the single sheet of paper covered front and back in closely spaced lines, neatly laid down in blue ink.

_Dear Mick,_ it read, followed by a little asterisk.

I found its counterpart squeezed into the margin with an explanation scribbled in tiny letters: _It feels weird to address you as "Mick" when I've always called you "Carpenter". But "Dear Carpenter" sounds rather silly, doesn't it? And "Mr." or "Corporal" is certainly out of the question!_

"Oh my", I said softly when the scales fell from my eyes and read on, riveted.

_I hope this finds you well, and happy with your lovely lady. She's a very lucky woman to have you, and I hope she knows it._

_I've been meaning to write ever since you left, but so much has happened since then._

_As you can see from the envelope, I've moved to the States (isn't it funny how you are now living in my home country and I'm living in yours?), and I got married, too. I don't know if you remember Jackson from the hospital. He was there the same time as you, but in the other ward, so I'm not sure if you ever met him (or does a tall fair-haired Aussie with a bayonet scar across his cheek ring a bell?) _

_Anyway, he's an old friend of my brother Greg's, and after he was discharged from hospital, I went out with him once or twice but never thought much about it. At the time, I guessed we were just being nice to each other because both of us were feeling kind of lonely._

_I met him again in March when I had a week off and went home to see my parents and to visit Greg who had just had knee surgery for the third time. He took a bad hit in the knee in the Philippines and has had massive trouble walking ever since. The poor boy was really down, as you can certainly imagine (he used to be a real sports nut and has been grounded with that sodding knee for almost two years now), and Jack was there virtually every day, trying to cheer him up a little._

_Well, by the end of my week off, we'd seen a lot of each other and gone out to dinner twice, and after the second dinner, he asked me to be his wife. Oh, and would I come to the States with him when he started his new job with Bell Aircraft in Atlanta? (Jackson's a mechanical engineer.)_

_Obviously, I said yes, and so here I am, a newly wed housewife in the suburbs of Atlanta. Can you imagine that, Carpenter? Me, a housewife?_

_I wanted to find a nursing job here, after all there's lots of hospitals in Georgia, too, but Jack wouldn't hear of it, so I try to busy myself at home and look after the old lady next door who hasn't got any family hereabouts._

_But enough about me now – how are you coming along? I've been thinking of you every so often, particularly since I came to the States. Although your accent is much different from the locals' Southern drawl (to be honest, I hardly understand some of them!), lots of words and expressions I hear here remind me so much of you, and whenever somebody mentions he's been in the Pacific in the war, I want to ask them if they knew you._

_Drop me a line some time, will you? I'd love to hear from you again._

_By the way, I seriously hope you have gone back to training with your artificial leg and are walking nicely by now. If you have given up on that, I promise I'll come kick you in the b…ackside next time I'm home!_

_Take care, Carpenter, and don't let __anything__ get you down!_

_Your friend_

_Amelia_

_P.S.: I've finally managed to read your Evelyn's book. It's even more fantastic than I thought it would be!_

"Oh my", I said once more. I could see her plumpish sturdy figure and her sparkling hazel eyes clearly in my mind, but I simply could not picture her in a frilly wedding dress or as the suburban housewife she described, and a disbelieving laugh escaped me.

Evelyn had finished shuffling her letters and magazines and was leaning back in her chair. She must have been watching me for quite a while.

"So who's Mrs. Jackson Fielding, now?" she asked with a sharp little edge to her voice.

"Amelia", I said, an imbecile grin spreading on my face. "Amelia got married."

"Amelia?" Evelyn's baffled tone was genuine, and I realized I'd never told her about Amelia. All she knew was that some nurse from the hospital in Brisbane had set me up with Mrs. Cunningham when I was looking for a place to stay.

"She was one of the nurses in Brisbane. The only one who was interested in more than my case sheet, I daresay."

"Apparently." She cast an oblique glance at the folded letter on the kitchen table, her eyes narrowed suspiciously, and added, "And you became the best of friends, I presume."

"Yes, we became friends indeed", I said pointedly. "After I'd transferred to the rehab ward, she came visiting me a lot. She was the only visitor I ever had. She brought me stuff to read and listened to me whine and, well, she was there for me when I thought I was all alone. I don't know what I'd have done without her. She was great."

"I bet she was." Evelyn nodded her head in an exaggerated manner, her arms folded tightly over her chest.

It took me a moment until I understood.

"You aren't _jealous_ of her, are you?" I asked with an incredulous laugh. "My God, Evelyn, she's just a friend! She was my _nurse_, for Chrissake, she changed my dressing and took my temperature and brought me my meals, and I guess she even wiped my ass while I was out of it! Yes, she had a bit of a human touch and the others didn't and I grew to like her, but all I could think of was how I missed you and what a freaking shame it was I'd never see you again!"

"If you were so sure you'd not see me again, I guess a bit of comfort would have done you good", she said dryly. "Or wouldn't it?"

"Jeez, Evelyn, please stop those fantasies! Do you really believe I would have seriously taken up with her, or anyone, lying in a hospital bed all shot to pieces, full of pain and weak as a baby? And you know what – you actually have some things to thank her for. She once saved my fucking life …"

"Isn't that what nurses are usually get paid for?" she cut in acidly.

I ignored her comment and went on rather loudly, "And it was her who helped me find you!"

That silenced her.

I told her how I had come to attend her lecture in Cleveland, which seemed to placate her a little, and then, after debating myself whether to mention it or not, I told her about that dismal day in the dispensary.

She stared at me wide-eyed, one hand at her mouth, obviously shocked, and murmured, "Well, then I have to thank your … Amelia indeed. I had no idea …"

She reached for my hand and held on to it as if I were about to slip away the next second.

I was upset myself, reliving the utter despair I had felt at the time, and astonished that I had actually told her what I'd never wanted anyone to know.

But it was only fair that she should know that much, I thought as I took her other hand in mine.

There was still enough I might never be able to speak of, not even to her.

* * *

She watched me with a different, cautious eye after this revelation, almost as if she feared I'd go and hang myself over the next thing that went wrong.

I tried to be ostentatiously cheerful and positive. Even as another job opportunity evaporated, I forced myself to see the good in it, which was not too hard because it had been another not-so-hot position, in the warehouse of a medical supplies company.

"Another dud. But then, I've seen far too much medical stuff anyway", I said lightly when Evelyn asked how it had gone. "And please don't look at me like that. I'm _not_ going to swallow a bottle of pills because I didn't get a job I didn't even want."

"I didn't …", she began.

"Oh yes, you did", I said, and she surrendered and laughed a little sheepishly.

"That's long past, really. It was just a singular bad moment back at the hospital", I told her firmly and added a little more soberly, "Well, that's not to say I'm not getting sick of being turned down. I don't know what's worse – if they say no right away when I mention that I've got a little souvenir from the war or if they invite me in for a chat and then call to tell me they've decided on someone else."

"You're bound to find something soon", Evelyn tried to reassure me, but her tone was not very convincing.

"I'm not too sure", I said and got up to open the window and light a cigarette, which I smoked slowly while I leaned on the outside windowsill, watching a few birds flutter around the tree on the other side of the road.

I exhaled a last puff of smoke and ground the cigarette butt out on the stone sill, breathing the clear air of a warm spring day.

The memory of a similar day a year ago flashed through my mind, when I had felt so trapped in the hospital and Amelia had shown me the secret passage into the little yard behind the kitchens, the first tiny glimpse of freedom I'd had after my life had been derailed so horribly, leaving me a desperate mangled wreck, homeless, jobless, hopeless.

If I was here twelve months later, limping along quite successfully on my new leg, living with the woman I'd thought lost, the hitherto futile job search my only major concern, much of it had been Amelia's doing.

Was she really happy with her engineer husband, so far from home? She had sounded a little lonely in her letter, and she seemed to miss working, something I could relate to only too well.

From what she had written, I had almost felt a little guilty that I hadn't thought of her a lot lately, as opposed to when I first moved here.

I had often compared Evelyn to her in the beginning, rather unfavourably. Of course Evelyn hadn't had any way of knowing what I could and couldn't do on my own, so she had frequently asked if I wanted her to do this or if I was able to do that. I knew perfectly well that she only wanted to make things as comfortable and easy for me as she could, but all her questions made the limitations to my life all the clearer. Just as bad were the moments when she didn't realize I had trouble doing something and I had to ask her to assist me, which made my helplessness all the more tangible.

Amelia would have known, I used to think then. She wouldn't have needed to ask, and I wouldn't have needed to tell her what to do. She would simply have known from professional experience what I required assistance with and what I could do on my own all right. She would have known that it wasn't necessarily worrisome when the pain or the depression got worse from time to time and would have given me a perky pep talk instead of looking at me helplessly with big pained eyes.

I had been very ashamed of myself for feeling that way, fully aware that I was being grossly unfair, but I couldn't help it at the time.

Good that we were over it now. Evelyn had learned when to lend a hand and when not to, and I had learned to accept her loving support with the things I couldn't do on my own. I had even learned to ask for it if necessary, without feeling embarrassed or humiliated.

"Mick?"

Evelyn seemed to be calling to me from a far distance. I had been so lost in thought that I didn't hear the twittering of the birds in the tree nor the traffic in the street below.

"Mick?" She came into the kitchen now, rather agitated, gesturing vivaciously. "Phone call for you – come quick!"

"Whoa there, they won't hang up if it's something important, will they?" I smiled mildly about her excitement as I closed the window and added, "Who is it anyway?"

"You'll see!" She was wearing such a broad grin on her face that my own curiosity grew rapidly and I limped into the living-room a little faster than I'd have done normally.

Leaning on the back of an armchair, I picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Mr. Carpenter?"

"Yes, speaking."

"Great. Uh, good afternoon. This is Donnie Snow, and I'm calling to ask if you are still interested."

"In…terested?" I repeated slowly. His name rang a bell but I couldn't quite place it yet.

"In the job? You know, at the …"

Jeez, now I knew who he was. Blond, medium height, suntanned, easy-going. An interview in a cramped and cluttered backroom office.

"…boating shop", both of us said at the same moment and laughed.

"You see", the tinny voice in the receiver continued, "I should've hired you in the first place. The guy I took on instead made off with the cash register last Thursday. Police got him quickly, and the money's back, too, but I'm short of staff again. So I wondered if you might consider …"

"Yes, yes indeed I might", I said with a ragged laugh. "Absolutely. And I promise your money's safe with me. I'm no good at running any longer, with or without the cash register."

* * *

In another life, it would have galled me that I hadn't been Donnie's first choice, maybe so much that I wouldn't have accepted the job.

I couldn't afford that kind of stubborn pride any more, and I didn't even mind.

When I first took my place behind the boating shop's counter, perched on the high upholstered stool Donnie had put there for me so I wouldn't have to stand too much, there was that warm sensation of belonging and of purpose.

Wood and varnish, oil and canvas gave off their characteristic smells, mingling into a very particular perfume that made me feel at home instantly. Selling oars and fenders, nets and rods, bait boxes and oil cans, talking expertly of the weather and the tides, of fishing and sailing, quickly learning the names and faces of the regulars, I settled in there in no time.

I hadn't been too sure if so much contact with this world that had once been my life would do me good, but I found that I still belonged there, if in a different way, despite the occasional pang of regret when someone spoke of their latest sun-drenched sailing trip down the coast or the nasty storm they'd ridden out recently.

The doorbell jangled its dissonant signal when the door flew open and a squall of rain propelled the skinny figure of old Stevie Pearson inside, dripping water from his flat cap and even from the tip of his chunky nose. He shook himself and wiped his face with a damp sleeve, and Donnie jeered from somewhere between the shelves of fishing gear, "Jesus, Mick, look what the cat dragged in!"

"Shut up, Snowman!" Stevie shouted back and came over to me, dragging his feet in his ridiculously big rubber boots. "Mornin', Mick, you alright? He treatin' you okay?" He jerked a thumb at Donnie and smirked, showing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.

"Barely. But I guess I'll manage." I grinned back at the old man, relishing the little joke we shared every time he came as much as the feeling that I was in the right place.


End file.
